


It's All the Gypsy's Fault

by the1crazycatlady



Series: It's All the Gypsy's Fault [1]
Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-Hero, Churches & Cathedrals, Death, Forbidden Love, France (Country), Hair, Lust, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Middle Ages, Priests, Religion, Revenge, Servants, Torture, Trials, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:09:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1crazycatlady/pseuds/the1crazycatlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout the span of the 1982 "Hunchback of Notre Dame" adaptation, we see Dom Claude Frollo followed constantly by his little manservant/secretary/who-knows-really, Philippe.*</p><p>What Claude Frollo didn't know, however, is how much Philippe truly felt towards him.</p><p>(I do not own the 1982 "Hunchback" adaptation, or it's characters.)</p><p>*I did not just assign him a name. This is actually what his name is. Look it up if you don't believe me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s all the gypsy’s fault that Claude did all he did.

The day he first saw her, he had literally just been appointed Archdeacon of Notre Dame, an occasion which should have been joyous; however, it was not to be.

The day was the sixth of January: the Festival of Fools, a day of lawless pleasure for all of Paris’s inhabitants. He and I were returning from the bishop’s palace in the ecclesiastical carriage.

“Congratulations on your new title, Fa-” I cut myself off, suddenly realizing my mistake. “Forgive me. 'Your Excellency.'”

Claude waved his hand at me nonchalantly. “Please, Brother Philippe, don’t worry about addressing me by the proper title. Between us, there really is no need.”

“It’s the custom,” I stated, sitting up a little straighter. “As a lower man, I must address the Archdeacon as ‘Your Excellency.’”

“The way you stick to customs…” Claude smiled, shaking his head.

Suddenly, we stopped bouncing the bounces that came naturally when riding in a carriage, and the rhythmetic clopping of horses’ hooves died away.

“We’ve stopped,” I realized aloud, glancing out the one open window. The populace was gaping at us, pointing and making comments. Claude frowned.

“What’s going on here?” he snapped, throwing open the gold-and-violet carriage curtain door and sticking his head out. “Why have we stopped?”

“A gypsy girl, Your Worship,” someone - I instantly assumed a soldier because of the respect and discipline in the man’s voice - answered. “We caught her dancing in the streets.”

“Then arrest her,” Claude ordered. “See that she’s taken at once…”

His voice trailed off as he said those last three words, and I saw his whole body tense up. He stared at something I could not see from my spot inside the carriage. A sense of foreboding came upon me and I withdrew a breath.

“Yes, Your Worship?” the other man asked. Claude’s head turned to where I assumed the soldier stood, and he leaned a little ways back into the carriage.

“Bring her here,” he ordered.

“Please,” came a soft, sweet, and utterly feminine voice. The rattling of soldiers’ armor grew louder. Claude settled himself back in the carriage, but left the curtain open. I eyed him; he seemed troubled.

“Please, please!” the woman pleaded again, “I haven’t done anything!”

Then I saw her and _knew._

She was definitely a gypsy, as one could easily deduce by her absolutely barbarous outfit - the too-short skirt, the low blouse - and excessive jewelry. Her hair was brown and disheveled in thousands of waves which danced about her face. Her eyes were a shockingly vibrant bright blue, and her features were flawless.

Claude could not take his eyes off her.

“Be quiet,” I commanded immediately, leaning protectively forward in my seat.

“I have no money,” the woman - she had to be in her late twenties or early thirties - explained in that same painfully whiny tone. “I must dance to eat, to _live_.”

Claude leaned closer to her. I clutched my robe tightly and pain shot through my heart and into my whole body.

“What is your name?” he asked.

She eyed him, confused, then replied, “Esmeralda.”

“You are a gypsy?” he wondered

“They tell me so,” the woman - Esmeralda - stated. “I don’t know.”

“She’s a witch!” I hissed into Claude’s ear. How could he not see, not know how _evil_ she was?

“No!” she protested. Esmeralda then grabbed Claude’s gloved hand, which had been propped on the carriage wall to support him. His entire body tensed even more. “Save me! Save me!” she pleaded.

He looked over at their hands, thus entwined, then back at the gypsy, and back at their hands again. With a swallow, he said: “Release her.”

I looked away from their hands and at him. Esmeralda assumed a calm air.

“Your Excellency,” I eventually began after a minute. I was simply shocked that he would let the pagan go.

But Claude interrupted me before I could continue. “Let her go.” And with that, he pulled back the curtain, leaning back in his seat. The carriage began to move again.

Neither of us spoke. Claude stared at the carriage wall, deeply distracted by something, his features distressed. I bit my lip, knowing full well what - or, as I should say, _who_ he was thinking of.

The ride back to Notre Dame only took a minute, but it seemed to last a lifetime, the way Claude stared. I was extremely relieved when we’d stopped.

The carriage curtain was thrown back by a silver-haired priest, who bowed, his hands clasped, as we exited the vehicle. Claude was like Atlas, the man who had the weight of the entire world on his shoulders; he exited the carriage and didn’t seem to notice the silver-haired man at all.

“Your Worship,” said another priest, this one a sunny blonde, as he hurried up to us while we walked towards the cathedral door. “Your Worship!”

Claude finally noticed that someone was addressing him and he stopped, turning to the blonde fellow and faintly asking, “Yes?”

“Quasimodo has gone,” the blonde priest replied. “He left the tower; I can’t find him anywhere.”

Quasimodo was Claude’s ward, a hideous man fit only for ringing the bells of Notre Dame, which had made him deaf.

Claude opened his mouth to reply to this news, but then closed it and turned away, walking into the cathedral. Wary of him doing something drastic, I followed him.

The blond priest ran after us, adding, “There’s a festival today. We should have locked him in.”

At these words, Claude stopped on the porch and looked back at the Place du Parvis, his mouth opening and closing mechanically. He seemed about to faint. Then, without a word, he turned and walked into the church.

I glared at the blonde priest - how dare he add to Claude’s most obvious troubles with such news? - and then followed Claude inside.

 


	2. Chapter 2

He was staring at a hanging crucifix when I got inside, his face betraying deep emotional disturbance. Cautiously, I reached out and put my hand on his left shoulder. He jumped high into the air, whirling about to face me. His blue eyes were wild and crazed.

“Your Excellency, is there…” I hesitated. “Is there something bothering you?”

“What?” He blinked profoundly. “No, no, not at all! I’m fine. Fine.”

I stepped back in shock.

He had _lied_ to me.

He had never lied to me before. Never.

“Excellency-”

“Brother Philippe, I have an errand for you.”

“What is it?” I asked reluctantly, desperately wanting to return to his falsehood.

“Quasimodo. Go find him for me. And keep an eye out for Esmer - the gypsy girl, I mean.”

I bit my lip, not wanting to look out for the witch at all, far better preferring the idea of completely ignoring her for the rest of my days. But for Claude…I’d do anything for Claude. Grudgingly, I bowed my head and told Claude that I would do as he asked.

He was already gone, however, off in his dreamland. He murmured inarticulate gargles and turned towards the direction of the confession cell.

He wanted Esmeralda, that I knew to be certain. It was obvious. He coveted for that witch, and now was going to go confess to Our Lord Almighty, begging Him for forgiveness.

 _I will go get Quasimodo for him_ , I decided, now officially dedicated to the cause. _Anything to make things easier during this…_ I hunted for the appropriate euphemism. _Difficult time._

I left Notre Dame.

Outside greatly contrasted with the quiet and serene nature of the church; outside, all was a whir of idiocy and foolishness, the dumb and the lazy wasting away. The people all strolled around, some walking on their hands, others eating fire. I clasped my hands together and weaved through the throng, my head erect. I was better than them. A priest.

Suddenly, I heard foreign, gypsy-sounding music. I paused, looking around for the source.

It was Esmeralda, I saw in annoyance. She was dancing, despite the warning Claude had given her. I moved closer to her crowd of admirers, already thinking about how much she would suffer for her disobedience.

She skipped, pranced, and raised her skirt high, revealing two finely sculpted legs. With a twirl, she raised her hands and ran about in a circle, snapping her fingers at her audience, who proceeded to throw money into her tambourine, which lay on the ground.

I scoffed. _She’s not even a good dancer._

Esmeralda kicked her feet into the air, and the wind blew her blue skirt high, showing off her bright green petticoats.

I closed my eyes, shuddering, then pushed my way through the mob of spectators. I shoved a man aside and then paused to watched her dance. She turned, and she caught sight of me. The witch smiled, her face full of sardonic mockery, and red-hot anger stuck me.

How dare she. Really, how _dare_ she dance after having been expressly forbidden by the _Archdeacon_ to do so. And the audience just clapped away, obviously enjoying her stupid little leaps and equally idiotic sways.

Her dancing stirred hatred within me...but not just that, I realized suddenly - I was jealous. How could _she_ , a petty little gypsy street-dancer, have Claude’s adoration, but not _me_? I was his closest confidant and friend of many years past, while she was a mere stranger he’d met just that day. And to think that I’d begun to think that he may possibly feel about me the same way I felt about him! I’d been delusional, but I’d thought it, _hoped_ for it.

The first time I’d know, known for certain that I’d cared for him, had been shortly after becoming a priest and meeting him, years previous. One night, Claude had come across me while I was praying. He immediately apologized for the disturbance.

“It’s all right,” I assured him. I had been kneeling on the floor, so I stood up, but then just sat down in one of the pews of the chapel, continuing, “I was just asking for God’s guidance.” As a young, fresh priest, I was in deep need of plenty.

“Oh, are you troubled, Brother Philippe?” Claude had wondered, sitting down next to me in the pew.

“Priesthood is turning out to be more difficult and draining than I imagined,” I admitted. Then I'd hesitated briefly, and quickly added, “Brother Claude, did you ever have any problems when you first became a priest?”

He thought about it momentarily, then shook his head. “No, not particularly, but every man is different.”

“You didn’t even miss your home, your family?” That had been the hardest adjustment I'd had to make – being away from home.

“My parents and I were never close,” Claude replied. “I hadn’t seen them in ten years when they died some ten years ago, when I was nineteen.”

“Forgive me for prying,” I apologized, lowering my gaze to my lap and feeling shamed. He always had been a higher-level priest than me; I was being extremely out-of-order.

“It’s no trouble, Brother Philippe.” Claude put a hand on my shoulder. Instead of feeling repulsed as I always did when anyone touched me, I suddenly felt content and serene. I raised my gaze and we looked at each other, mere centimeters apart. I had longed to stay that way forever.

He had been the only supportive priest at Notre Dame; none of the other priests had been particularly considerate, disliking my background. As if I could control my birth, make myself rich like they were. Claude's kindness was so comforting and surreal...

It had been so difficult accepting my feelings at first - God declared homosexuality a sin - but there was no way I could deny them. God never punished me, nor did I act upon my emotions in any unforgivable way, despite the many countless times Claude and I were alone together afterwards.

And now there was this woman who was stealing Claude away from me. I despised her and my gnawing desire to be her.

“Hey, it’s the bell-ringer!” a man exclaimed, disturbing my thoughts. “It’s Quasimodo!”

Everyone began to swarm around some corn husks some meters away, chattering about “the hunchback.” Esmeralda’s spectators hurried away and she slowly stopped dancing, placing her hands upon her hips. I couldn't help but smile to myself.

A mob of people dragging someone moved to where the King of Fools was being elected, across the Place de Grève.

“Come on there! Get him inside!”

A man was thrust through the chapel doors. A window had been unceremoniously broken, and the King was to be decided by people putting their heads through the window. Whomever was the ugliest was to be elected the King of Fools.

“Don’t look at the hunchback!” a crone cried.

“Let all pregnant women beware!” some wench warned.

“Or those that wish to be!” added a man. Laughter erupted from the crowd.

Then he stuck his head out the window and the audience gasped. There was no doubt - it was Quasimodo. The great wart over one eye, the tangled, messy red hair, the bulbous nose and scraggly teeth…all were Quasimodo to the life. Had we been able to see more of him, we would have seen a hunched back and legs like those of a bird.

The crowd dulled down to silence and a then a few loud cries rose high in the air.

“Make _him_ the king!” someone eventually cried.

“The King of Fools!”

“Yes, make him the King!”

I looked over at the new king, annoyed but satisfied - it was no longer a mystery as to his whereabouts anymore, at least. With one last envious, hateful glance at Esmeralda - _she’ll be dealt with later_ \- I turned and walked away.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Back at Notre Dame, I found the blonde priest - who appeared to have been milling about, doing absolutely nothing of any importance – and I told him that I’d found Quasimodo in the Place de Grève.

“He’s been declared the King of Fools,” I declared. “Go tell the Archdeacon at once!”

“Yes, Father.”

That deed done, I went back out and found some soldiers.

“It’s that gypsy,” I explained. “Despite the Archdeacon’s warning, she is dancing in the Place de Grève. You must seize her at once!”

_Claude can’t get to her in prison_ , I thought. _He will be safe from her spell when she’s gone._

I took them to the Grève, and was pleased to see that Esmeralda was still there, collecting her illegal profits from the dirt.

“Seize her,” I ordered, pointing. She gasped as soldiers grabbed her arms and yanked her upward.

“You have been warned,” I reminded her gloatingly, “and now you will pay for it.” I turned, smiling, and led the soldiers to the cathedral.

Claude wasn’t there when we arrived. The blonde priest, who was still doing absolutely nothing, informed me that Claude had gone out to fetch Quasimodo.

“Then you shall wait,” I told Esmeralda.

“Oh, please, I beg you, have pity!” she pleaded. “They made me, I-”

“Quiet, girl!” I snapped. She recoiled. “The Archdeacon will be here soon, and then you will suffer the consequences for your disobedient actions.”

Two men came through the door then - Claude and Quasimodo. The former gestured for the latter to depart to the bell-tower and I walked over to Claude before he could wander away and disappear again. He glanced over at me and said, beginning to walk off, “Later.”

“We need your consent,” I stated.

He stopped walking and, sounding annoyed, asked, “My consent? To what?”

“The gypsy girl.” His eyes widened at my words. “Knowing the consequences, she deliberately disobeyed your edict, and we caught her dancing in the streets again.”

Claude toyed with his gloves, not looking at me. “Where is she now?”

I gestured with my head to a spot behind him, where the soldiers held the girl. Again, his eyes widened. He turned his head slightly to the side, looking at her.

“You brought her _here_?” he hissed.

“She’s to be taken at once to the Bastille,” I hastily explained, not wanting him to possibly think of me in ill-favor. “We need only your consent.”

He turned and looked at her while I spoke.

“Excellency?” _Surely you want her gone as well. Please. You must give consent, Claude, you must!_

“I will speak with her,” he said.

_No! You must give your consent so things can return to as they were! You’ve prayed to God; you’re supposed to be cleansed!_

I took a step closer to him, opening my mouth so I could whisper my protest, but he made a gesture for me to stay where I was and to remain silent. Claude walked over to Esmeralda and I bent my head.

“As you wish,” I sighed, then realizing that there was no way the gypsy would be going to the Bastille.

Esmeralda pulled herself from the soldiers’ grasps and threw herself at Claude’s feet, clutching the hem of his black robes with one hand. He eyed her and raised his hands, grabbing at nothing and taking a step back.

“I am innocent,” the gypsy whined beggingly.

“Get up,” he ordered.

“I told him they’d arrest me!”

“I said get up.”

Slowly, she let go of his robes and looked up at him, rising slowly and softly, wondering, “Is it so terrible to dance in the streets?”

“You take me for a fool?” Claude wondered coldly.

“I don’t understand-”

“There is a demon, a demon that speaks through your lips.” He took a step towards her. I bit my tongue and the bitter taste of blood was soon on my tongue.

“No!” Esmeralda protested. “Please, God!”

“Do not blaspheme,” Claude said, crossing himself as he spoke.

“I swear by all that’s holy, I’ve never harmed anyone!”

_She lies_ , I thought. _She hurt_ him.

“Let me go, please,” she softly begged.

“If you go,” Claude began, “if you leave this cathedral, you will be taken straight to the Bastille.” Esmeralda jaw went slack in shock. “There is no hope for you…unless…” He looked up. “Here…in this cathedral…you may claim sanctuary.”

I closed my eyes. My jaw hurt because of my clenched teeth and my brow was aching because it was so tightly furrowed.

“Sanctuary,” she repeated quietly.

“The courts, the magistrates, they cannot touch you here.”

Esmeralda smiled weakly. “But how could I live here?”

Glancing beyond her, he walked to her left and pivoted, looking back at her.

“In the bell-tower.” Claude turned a little more and looked at something only he could see. “There is a place for you to sleep. I will see that you are cared for.”

_Don’t succumb to her gypsy spells, Claude_ , I noiselessly begged. _Don’t. Please_.

“You?” Esmeralda asked.

Claude smiled at her. “I will pray for you.”

With that, he turned away from her and walked over towards me, in the direction of the bell-tower staircase. Halfway to me, he stopped and turned back to the girl. She was looking down at the ground.

“Come,” he beckoned. Esmeralda looked up at him and then went to him. They walked to the staircase. I watched them go up the steps, feeling as though I should do something more than just stand there helplessly. However, with a sigh, I walked over to the soldiers and bid them adieu.

A short while later, I was lighting the candles for the vespers when loud and quick footfalls disturbed me. Looking up from my work, I saw that it was Esmeralda, looking terrified. She ran out the cathedral door and into the street, her skirts flying up scandalously. Seconds after came Quasimodo, who followed the same path she did. After a few minutes, Claude entered the room from the same staircase, appearing distracted.

“Your Excellency,” I greeted, going over to him.

“Hm?” He looked at me like he didn’t know who I was; it unsettled me. “Oh. Yes. Brother Philippe.”

How could he have difficulty knowing my name? I had served him diligently for many years; he knew me better than any other human being, possibly better than I knew myself.

“We won’t…we won’t be having the gypsy girl staying with us,” he faintly informed me after a pause.

“Good,” I whispered quietly.

“Hm.” Claude wandered away, off in his dreamworld again.

“Claude…” I mumbled.

But he didn’t hear me.

The next day, I found out that Quasimodo had been arrested for attempting to carry off a lewd gypsy girl.

The gypsy’s name was Esmeralda.

Quasimodo would never have tried to kidnap that woman unless Claude had asked him to.

When I told Claude of Quasimodo’s trial after the morning service, he didn’t appear at all disturbed. He merely asked calmly, “When was this?”

“This morning,” I replied. “They’ve taken him to the pillory in the Place de Grève.” We took a few more steps, then I inquired, “Shall we fetch him?”

“No,” Claude responded. He didn’t seem to care that Quasimodo was going to be whipped and then turned on the pillory for an hour afterwards, free to suffer anyone's diabolical pleasure.

I realized that he wanted to be kept out of the whole kidnapping affair, to keep his feelings towards Esmeralda hidden, but to go so far as to let a man get tortured… “He is an embarrassment to the Church, Excellency, _and_ to your office.” I pivoted in front of him. “Why do you go on sheltering him?”

Claude was silent, then smiled and explained, “Those that we shelter here on earth become the treasures God grants us in heaven.”

Nevertheless, an hour later, Claude took one of the ecclesiastical horses and rode out into the city, towards the Place de Grève. He returned shortly after, gloomy…and without Quasimodo.

 


	4. Chapter 4

A couple weeks later, Claude summoned me to his office.

“You asked for me, Your Excellency?” I wondered, sitting down in the chair across from his desk.

“Yes, Brother Philippe, I have an errand for you.” He put his quill down on the table and clasped his hands together in front of him, looking at me.

“An errand?” I repeated.

“That gypsy girl - the one whom I’ve asked you to keep an eye on - you speak of a man who is frequently with her. Pierre Gringoire, you said his name was.” His blue eyes bored into me. “Bring him to me.”

Ever since that day, the day he first saw her, I’d been spying on Esmeralda. Claude had ordered me to do so. He wanted every single detail about her, when really, her days were all the same - dance illegally, hide from the law, etc., etc. As often as I’d complained to Claude about her dancing, he refused to have her taken to the Bastille, saying that “people have to make their livings, Brother Philippe.”

One time, I had told him of a man who frequently went about Paris with her. Claude had insisted that I find out his name, which I, in turn, had found to be Pierre Gringoire.

I had also learned that Gringoire was Esmeralda’s husband; however, I had not told him this, worried about how he would react.

So, naturally, I was upset by Claude's new errand.

“May I ask…why, sir?”

“No, you may not,” he snapped, picking up his quill. “Go! Bring him to me!”

The harshness of his words set me aback; never before had he yelled at me. And he had never kept things from me, not since _that woman_.

“Right away, Your Excellency,” I muttered, standing up. I bowed my head and stepped out of his office, feeling nauseated. All I could do was get Pierre Gringoire and hope that he wouldn't mention his true relationship with Esmeralda.

I left the church and began to ask about for Gringoire. Some vagrants told me that he was in the city's garden with Esmeralda.

I bowed my head in thanks to the vagrants and made my way to Paris’s garden, which lay in the section of town most inhabited by vagabond slime. As a result, two soldiers were at my side by the time I saw Esmeralda exiting the garden. A tall, thin man with curly sand-colored hair came out after her a few moments after. His clothes were almost rags, and he had a rolled-up scroll in one hand.

The soldiers and I went up to the man.

“You are Pierre Gringoire?” I queried. I already knew it was him, so there was no worry of embarrassment and such other messy situations.

“I am,” the man replied. The soldiers went around and took him by the arms.

“Will you come with me?” I requested.

“For what purpose?” he demanded.

I did not respond, but turned and led the way back to Notre Dame.

Once there, I took Pierre Gringoire to Claude’s office, the soldiers tailing along behind us. Claude was still busy writing when I opened the door and led Gringoire inside.

“You are Pierre Gringoire?” he asked, lifting his quill.

“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” apologized Gringoire, walking up to Claude’s desk, “I am called that, and it’s true that I’m a poet…”

Quietly, I stepped out, closing the door behind me. I looked at the soldiers, who were still there. “Go,” I ordered quietly. They nodded and clanked down the hall and out of sight.

That done, I found I couldn’t move. My breathing was uneasy, my head was spinning. I bent my forehead to the door’s surface, my heart beating wildly in my ears.

There could be and was only one reason why Claude had asked me to bring Pierre Gringoire - Esmeralda. She still possessed him. And what if Claude found out about Esmeralda and Gringoire’s relationship…?

I pressed my ear against the door.

“…If you speak of Esmeralda,” Pierre Gringoire said, “we are, in faith, married.”

My heart froze; I couldn’t blink.

There was a terrible pause, then, faintly, Claude asked, “What?”

“She is my wife,” confirmed the poet. I winced, fearing how Claude would react to the news I'd purposefully kept from him.

“But only,” Gringoire continued, “it would seem, to save my life. I fear she doesn’t care for me.”

“You mean…” Claude paused. “You haven’t…you haven’t touched her.”

“I swear, by my hope of heaven, there is nothing more intimate between us than that of utter strangers.”

Again, there was a pause before Claude spoke. “I wish to make an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?”

“I’m willing to offer a gift of forty gold crowns to whomever has a claim upon her. You, apparently, are that person.”

“Your Excellency, I don’t understand,” Gringoire replied.

I understood perfectly.

“It’s very simple,” Claude proceeded. “I intend to keep her here.”

“Here?”

“Must you keep repeating everything I say?”

“For what purpose, Your Excellency?”

“For the purpose of _shelter_ , of course.” Claude’s voice was that of an elderly woman explaining something remarkably simple to a young and ignorant child. “Of _providing_ for her.”

“Only that?”

Claude flared up in a frightening manner that was even worse that when he’d lost his temper with me earlier that morning. “You insolent… _How_ dare _you?!_ ”

“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” the poet apologized quickly, truthfully not sounding sorry at all. “But, you see, I am _distraught_ with jealousy!” His voice grew louder, closer. I backed away quickly, but the door did not open. I resumed my previous position.

“…Is in love with the sun,” Gringoire complained. “Phoebus, the sun god - he has bedazzled her.”

“You dare to jest with me?!” Claude barked.

“He is captain of the Royal Archers-” the poet’s voice grew quieter, and I assumed that he was walking back over to Claude’s desk “-and they have set a rendezvous for tonight. I tell you, he cares for no woman, but she is _blinded_ by a uniform. In all truth, I fear for her.”

“Where do they meet?” Claude asked casually.

“At the Boarshead Tavern, at seven o'clock.” Pierre Gringoire sounded confused.

“Monsieur Gringoire, I have nothing further to say to you.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” The sound of footsteps coming to the door greeted my ear. Quickly, I removed myself from the door and stole away into a neighboring room. After a minute, Pierre Gringoire stormed out, and then a loud crinkling came from Claude’s office, like the balling and tearing up of paper.

Claude did not come out of the office for the rest of the day.

That evening, after the vespers, I caught Claude trying to leave the cathedral without detection. He was bundled up in a black cloak with a hood to the very eyes, and he was extremely vexed with me coming across him.

“Your Excellency, are you going out?” I wondered.

“What business is it of yours?” he snapped. I stepped back in shock. _His temper is so quick. He used to be so patient..._

“But it is so late, Excellency, and-”

“It is no concern to you,” Claude stated. “Good evening.” He turned to the door.

“Wait!” I cried. He whirled back to me, his robes billowing, and glared.

“What?” he hissed.

“I-I…” I didn’t know what to say. “The gypsy girl, she…she…she’s bewitched you, Excellency!”

“That’s a lie.” And yet he trembled at my words.

“Claude, I…” What am I doing? “I’m concerned for you. You aren’t yourself, you’re possessed!”

I instantly regretted my words.

“How _dare_ you address me in such an informal manner!” he spat. “You are to call me ‘Your Excellency,’ Brother Philippe, _is that clear_? And you are also to tell me _everything_ about Esmeralda, not leaving out particular details like the fact that _Pierre Gringoire is her husband._ ”

My throat tightened and my eyes burned. I looked down at the floor. “Yes, Your Excellency. Please forgive me.”

Without a word, he turned and stepped outside. I watched him go, and the sporadic ringing of the bells in the bell-tower seemed to match my emotions; I didn't know what I felt.

That night, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers was stabbed at the Boarshead Tavern, shortly after half-past seven. Esmeralda, surprisingly enough, was arrested for the crime.

She didn’t do it.

The girl’s trial was a month later. On the day of it, an hour before, I walked into Claude’s cloister-cell to tell him that it was time he got ready. He was praying, clutching his cross necklace tight in his hands, and he didn’t notice me at first.

“…Save me!” he pleaded. “A demon! A witch! Help me! Deliver me from the evil of…” It was then that he saw me behind him; he grew irritated.

“What do you want?” he snapped. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s time to get ready, Your Excellency,” I replied. I felt as though I was going to choke.

“For what?” he asked, his voice thick with tearless sobs.

It was hard to bring the words to my mouth. “The Palace of Justice,” I replied softly. He tisked and looked away, bowing his head to his clasped hands.

“Get out,” he mumbled. “Get out. _Get out_!”

He raised his head, staring intently at the cross hanging on the wall. Tensing up, I walked out of his room, looking behind me once more before I shut the door and left him to pray his useless prayers.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It was not required of me to go to the trial, but I felt obliged to go, as if I could make sure the gypsy got what she deserved for having done what she did to Claude.

So, an hour later, after Claude had already left for the Palace of Justice, I went there myself. I took a seat in the back row of audience area in the dimly-lit courtroom. Claude himself, meanwhile, sat in a nondescript corner, nervously picking at his red robes.

“…What happened then?” the judge questioned, peering murderously down at the witness; it was the owner of the Boarshead Tavern.

“Captain Phoebus took the room and paid me a crown,” the man replied.

“Never mind how much it cost.”

The tavernkeeper shifted uncomfortably. “The girl arrived,” he continued. “The gypsy. B-but I didn’t know then she was a witch!”

“Go on,” ordered the judge.

“Later, when she was up there, I heard a scream, a fiendish scream, and I ran up the stairs at once. And there she was. And there was the Captain, with a dagger in his back on a coat of blood! It was horrible!

“My Lord, I’m innocent of this,” the man continued, “I do not consort with witches!”

The judge sighed exasperatedly and told the tavernkeeper to step aside. Then he spoke to Esmeralda.

“Stand.”

The gypsy, who sat in a chair in the middle of a square of people - priests on two ends, judges on one, then the audience behind her - did not do as was ordered of her at first. She never did. Exasperated with her slowness, the judge banged angrily on the table and repeated his command. She stood then.

“It is well known that you belong to a race of gypsies,” the judge began, “and are given to sorcery. In concept with powers of darkness, you did stab of captain of the King’s Archers. Do you _persist_ in your denial of this charge?!”

“I do!” she wailed. “I’m innocent!”

“Then how do you explain what took place?”

There was a pause, and Esmeralda said, “There was someone else. He wore the garment of a monk. He…” Her voice drifted off.

The judge leaned closer, like a predator closing in on its prey. “Yes?”

“I-I could see him clearly.”

I held my breath, desperately not wanting for her to say the inevitable.

“Then who was it?” the judge asked.

Esmeralda didn’t say anything at first, then whispered, “The Archdeacon.”

Uproar rose from the audience - the idea itself was sacrilege. I eyed the people around me and looked down at my lap. I picked at some lint stuck to my outer thigh.

Little did they know the celestial truth of the witch’s statement.

I sighed quietly and glanced over at Claude. He was fixedly staring at nothing, his gloved knuckle in his mouth.

When the chaos had died down, the judge announced, “The Court will not record the prisoner’s last statement.”

Claude and I both gave silent sighs of relief.

The judge made a sign and a door in the back of the room opened. Through the door came a man carrying the white goat which had often accompanied Esmeralda. The entire audience burst into laughter at the sight of it.

“The prisoner will now respond,” the judge stated as the man paused beside the gypsy. “Does this beast belong to you?”

Esmeralda turned from her caressing the beast and said yes.

“It’s known far and wide that all demons possess a goat with which to practice their witchcraft.” The judge looked at the man carrying the creature. “Take it away and destroy it.”

“No, Djali!” the girl wailed, grabbing at the goat as it was being taken away. Soldiers grabbed at her while the judge barked, “Prisoner.” She looked up at him helplessly.

“In view of your refusal to confess your crimes,” stated the judge. He suddenly paused, as if something wondrous had occurred to him. “I recommend the application of torture until you _do_ confess.”

The court was completely silent for a moment, then broke out in a loud uproar. The judge leaned back in his seat and ordered the soldiers to remove Esmeralda.

She was led away.

§ § §

“…By order of our Lord the King, you shall be taken in a tumbril, with a rope around your neck, before the great Cathedral of Notre Dame, where you shall be hanged and strangled on the town gibbet.”

Her death would mean Claude’s final freedom; I eagerly waited for it.

It did not come.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The day of her execution was all abuzz with preparation. I myself was not to participate in the brief religious ceremony that would take place before Esmeralda’s hanging, but Claude was, and it was my duty to help him get ready.

“Soon there will be one less witch to defy God’s holy order,” I thought aloud as I gently put Claude’s cope on his shoulders.

“Yes,” he mumbled, preoccupied with his thoughts. I straightened the cope and then brushed away a few wrinkles, my fingers remaining longer than was really all that necessary.

“No longer shall she break holy laws and bewitch the innocent,” I continued. “Such a fine thing.”

He whirled about and faced me, his blue eyes fierce with anger. Then, in a tone like ice, he declared, “She was very pleasing.”

I opened my mouth to reply to this, to tell him that it was the gypsy’s spell that had made him say that, but Claude snatched the remainder of his religious clothing away from me and stormed out of the room. I watched him go, subconsciously running my fingers along the section of my skin where his hand had briefly brushed against mine.

An hour later, the cathedral door opened and the ceremony began. Priests chanted Latin while crosses glittered under the noontide sun. The crowd slowly died down, and two soldiers pushed Esmeralda closer to the gibbet platform.

“ ‘Out of the depths I have cried to thee, oh Lord,’ ” Claude chanted - I walked behind him and heard him perfectly - “ ‘and thou hadst heard my voice.’ ”

Claude walked up to the gibbet while Esmeralda was roughly led up there by soldiers; his eyes never left her body. I wandered to the back of the procession of priests, clenching my teeth.

They were a foot away from each other.

“Have you asked God to forgive you your sins?” Claude boomed, scrutinizing her.

Esmeralda said nothing, instead looking down at the ground. After a few moments, Claude took a step towards her - the foot became mere inches. My fingernails dug painfully into my palm as he whispered something inaudible to her. My hand screamed in agony, but I did not loosen my grip.

She turned her head and looked at him with an expression that seemed to say, “No, never.”

After a pause, Claude backed away, and, crossing himself, thundered, “May God have mercy on your soul!”

He walked down the gibbet platform's steps and the populace began to shout out again. Claude came over to his fellow priests, cope sparkling in the sunlight, and he stood directly in front of me. I looked at him, wondering what he had said to the woman; did I want to know?

I turned back to Esmeralda. The hangmen pulled her over to the noose and made her step onto the footstool. The noose was too high - one of them climbed up and lowered it.

Claude breathed agitatedly and then suddenly turned around, pushing me away. Fear, longing, dismay…all were clear on his face.

I watched him as he hurried away, his body shaking wildly, then turned back to the gibbet to watch the hanging. _I'll be here for you, Claude._

“Hang her!” the populace cried.

“Hang her,” I whispered beneath my breath.

Drums boomed in repetitive intervals; they soon quickened in pace. _Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…_

Soon it would finally be over. All over.

They cut her long, curly brown hair, swept it away, and fastened the rope about her neck.

I dared not even blink.

Suddenly, someone came flying down from the sky with a loud grunt, kicking away a soldier in the process. My attention was diverted from the gibbet.

The person picked up the fallen soldier’s spear and beat back a couple more soldiers. The person was a man with a hunched back, disheveled red hair, and crooked knees.

_Quasimodo._

Quasimodo hit the hangmen down with his newly-acquired weapon, dashing quickly up the gibbet steps. With the blade of the spear, he cut the noose. Esmeralda fell limply into his waiting arms. He caught her, dropped the spear, and ran forward, kicking away a soldier. Then he turned and ran towards the church.

The priests stood aside, doing nothing to stop him; I did the same, though I personally glared at him. Quasimodo paused on the porch of Notre Dame, turning back to the crowd.

“Sanctuary!” he cried. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”

I took a step towards him, and he ran into the cathedral. A few priests and I trailed in after him.

He was already gone by the time we’d entered the hall. Outside, the people cheered.

“Check the chapel,” I ordered, moving towards the bell-tower staircase. The sound of receding feet met my ears, and I hurried up, quietly cursing the day Quasimodo had been born to the devil.

He was outside the sanctuary cell, peering through the doorway, his air of tenderness just about suffocating me.

Furious, I stormed over to him, shaking him by his great hump. He turned to me, hardly startled.

“Why did you do that?” I snapped.

Quasimodo gave me his equivalent of a smile, grotesquely revealing his uneven fangs. I recoiled at the sight of him.

“She gave me water,” he replied in his hoarse, gruff voice.

In the deep recesses of my memory, from a time a few months back, I recalled having overheard some old hags gossiping about how a gypsy girl had given Quasimodo water at the pillory.

I was speechless for a few moments, then stammered, “ J-just you wait-t until the Archd-deacon hears of this!”

I didn’t even bother to listen to whatever Quasimodo’s response would be. I turned away, running down the stairs, all while trembling in annoyance and frustration.

The Archdeacon would be shocked, I knew, but also relieved.

Freedom would not come today - would it ever?

Claude stumbled into Notre Dame very late that evening. He was cold, wet, and obviously in shock. He trembled all over. He had his robes wrapped around himself and was deeply perturbed.

He staggered in and instantly leaned against the door’s threshold, as if his head was to heavy for his body to support. At last, he regained his strength and walked further in. Quasimodo popped out from behind a pillar and limped over to him.

“Master, please come,” the hunchback begged.

Claude turned away and walked in the opposite direction. He came over towards me, and yet he did not seem to see that I was there. I moved towards him, stopping him mid-step.

“Excellency!” I cried, for I doubt a normal tone would have roused him from his arctic state. “Quasimodo has something to show you.”

What an understatement that was.

Claude did not look me in the eye, and tried to walk away. I rushed after him.

“It’s _important_!” I added.

He pleadingly looked into my eyes, begging for me to let him go. I looked intently back at him, sorry for what he would have to see.

Claude turned away and went over to Quasimodo, who joyfully pranced up the staircase. Claude paused in the threshold of the staircase, looking back at me.

Then, without a word, he followed Quasimodo up.

 


	7. Chapter 7

A few weeks later, I was walking back from the bishop’s place. Claude had asked me to run an errand for him – it was the first time he'd talked to me since he had locked himself away in his cell in the cloisters, refusing to come out. As a result, I had been forced to take over the bulk of his duties.

But my mind wasn't on my temporary duties. All I could think about was how the gypsy would come to get what she _deserved_. And then I was concerned for Claude...

I was walking, and then some impudent soldier on a shining white horse rode madly past me.

“Out of my way, you damned priest!” he laughed. I barely managed to get out of the way before he trampled me to death.

“The plague on the oaf!” I hissed, watching him gallop off. The soldier acted as though he hadn’t nearly murdered a priest, and looking at him only made my troubles worse. I sighed and turned to carry on, but was stopped immediately by the soldier boasting-

“Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers at your service, mademoiselles.”

The name struck my soul like lightning. I whirled back, glaring at the soldier. He was accosting two young women, and the ladies seemed utterly delighted to have been addressed by him.

 _Phoebus?_ I thought. _Phoebus de Chateaupers? That’s the captain Esmeralda is supposed to have killed - alive? Phoebus is alive?_

I was overjoyed. _Claude’s soul isn’t eternally lost! He didn’t kill anyone!_

I hastened back to Notre Dame and immediately went to the cloisters. I pounded on the door of Claude’s cell. There was no response.

“Your Excellency, good news!” I cried. “That captain the gypsy tried to kill - he’s not dead!”

The door slammed open. I recoiled at the sight Claude.

He was absolutely murderous, particularly his eyes, which were wild and bloodshot because of lack of sleep. He was dressed in his sleeping garments, all disheveled and ill-kept. His blonde hair appeared to have not been cared for in a millennium, as it was greasy and severely tangled.

“Phoebus?” he hissed. “Alive?”

“Y-yes, Excellency.” I swallowed. “Alive.”

Claude laughed. He laughed like the devil, like one already mad by the tortures of hell. It frightened me.

“Alive,” he repeated. “Well, good! All the better!”

“Your Excelle-”

But he slammed the door shut in my face, not even bothering to listen to what I had to say. I stared at the wood, heartbroken and confused.

In all respect, I should have hated him. He was cruel to me, definitely no longer the good, kind man I knew and cared for. That man was gone, and had been gone since the day Esmeralda cast her spell; it was all the gypsy’s fault, every bit of it.

This man, the one who had slammed the door in my face, I did not trust him. I don’t know how I knew, but I was certain that he was going to do something drastic as a result of the news I’d given him.

So I went into my own cell across the hall and waited.

Years later, well after the vespers had all come and gone, I heard the door to Claude’s cell open and close softly. I waited a few seconds, then stepped out of my cell and followed him.

We went up to the bell-tower. He had cleaned himself up and now had a robe over his nightclothes. However, he was still a mess, and he walked like the possessed man he was. The cross hanging from his belt glittered in the faint light, and I found that I couldn't look away from it.

He opened the door to the bell-tower; softly, I slid through after him, pausing and watching as he went over to Esmeralda's cell. The dimness of the air seemed to echo disturbing whispers I dare not repeat.

Claude paused in the doorway, one hand on the threshold. “Do you know?” he wondered, staring intently as something in the cell. He stepped inside. “Have you any idea what will happen to you now?”

I could no longer see him. Quietly, I moved closer to the cell, eventually stopping and pressing myself against the wall outside the door as Esmeralda spoke, “Captain Phoebus is alive.”

“Yes,” Claude replied contemptibly, “but what does that matter?”

I leaned more against the wall, scarcely breathing. I wanted to look, but I also didn’t.

“Well, he can go before the Magistrate-”

“But the crime remains the same,” Claude interrupted, “even though he lives.”

“ _You_ ,” Esmeralda spat, “you were the one who tried to kill him.”

 _Because of you!_ I thought, vainly trying to breath properly.

There was a pause, and then Claude confirmed what I already knew with one horrible word. “Yes.”

I'd known it was true, known it to be the truth without any doubt, but my heart still broke into thousands of pieces; so many, they would never be completely put together again. I wrung my hands, biting my lip in order to refrain from screaming or wailing at the agony of my sudden situation.

“...Possessed as I was by the devil!” Claude added fiercely.

“ _Please_ go away, I beg you,” Esmeralda sneered. “I can’t bear to look at you.”

“Do you find Quasimodo a better object to look upon?” There was a creak, like that of someone sitting on a pallet. I jerked my head to the left, staring at the doorway. _No..._

“He can't save you,” Claude stated.

“But he has!” Esmeralda mocked.

“No,” Claude replied coldly. “Sanctuary can be broken. It needs only a decree of Parliament. Someone can easily solicit that decree.”

“But who would do that?” the gypsy scorned, her voice free and airy.

“Don't you yet understand?” Claude asked, his voice grave. “It’s beyond all reason now. _I must have you._ ”

“No!” she screamed.

“I must!”

“No! Get off me! No!”

The mattress creaked forcefully. I couldn’t breathe. I had to do something. I could not just stand by and let Claude go so far as to… I couldn’t even bear to think of it.

But I couldn’t just walk in and forcefully remove Claude - he’d hate me for doing that, and I couldn’t, just couldn’t have that. Such a thing was unthinkable - to lose what little of Claude I had left…

Stumbling forward drunkenly, I saw a shaft of blue light piercing through the darkness. On a whim, uncontrolled, I staggered towards it and found myself on a balcony.

Quasimodo! Quasimodo was on the balcony! He was cooing to a pigeon. I stepped over to him, for once happy to see his ugly face.

“Quasimodo!” I hissed, pushing him towards the doorway. Even out here, Esmeralda’s cries rang sharp in the air. “Go! Save him!”

It suddenly occurred to me that I may not have gotten to Quasimodo in time and I shrieked, shoving the hunchback aside. I ran through the door and out of the bell-tower; I went down to the cloisters. There, in the darkness of my cell, I curled into a fetal ball and slowly rocked back and forth, echoes of what I’d heard still ringing loudly in my ears.

Claude was gone.

And yet I still cared.

God, what was wrong with me?

The next afternoon, Pierre Gringoire came back to the cathedral. He looked at me, then turned and marched off towards Claude’s office; Claude had gone there after returning from a long “walk” earlier.

“Wait!” I cried, abandoning the blonde priest, with whom I had been examining a scroll. I chased after the poet; Claude would not appreciate being disturbed. “You there!”

Pierre Gringoire ignored me, marching right into Claude’s office. Claude was reading in the dim light, and did not seem upset at the disturbance.

“You've got to do something!” the poet shouted. “They’re going to take her away!”

“I tried to stop him!” I said.

Claude turned away from us, telling me, “Let him be.”

“Didn't you hear me?” Gringoire interrogated. “My God, they’re going to hang her!”

 _Good_ , I thought. Then I sighed and turned to depart.

“Yes,” Claude replied emotionlessly. “Why do you come to me?”

“Because…” Gringoire hesitated. I continued towards the door. “Because you care for her! I know you do!”

The words were like a knife, and they plunged directly into my heart. My eyes began to prick, sting, and I hurried out of the room, forgetting to close the door behind me.

I ran and ran, not knowing whither I was going, and I eventually collapsed somewhere, breathing erratically. I gripped my hair, my cap sliding off and onto the ground.

Claude didn’t _care_ for Esmeralda, he _desired_ her, wanted her in his bed! That wasn’t care, that was _lust!_  Damnable lust!

Me, I, _I_ was the one who cared, but God viewed those feelings as lust. _So unfair._ I’d never felt the way Claude did towards Esmeralda, not once; I would be absolutely content if things were to go to as they were before, when Claude ignored my few, meager, pathetic advances and I pined for him from afar. Anything to get Claude back to as he was, to keep him safe!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the idea of Philippe coming to the rescue and pulling Quasimodo onto the scene a whole lot better than Quasimodo just happening to wander by at EXACTLY the right moment. It makes so much more sense.


	8. Chapter 8

“Guards!” one of the soldiers in front of the church barked, “take hold!”

All of Paris’s thieves and beggars swarmed the Place du Parvis, shouting unrepeatable insults at Notre Dame.

We had no idea what was going on, why the slime of Paris was attacking us, but we knew what we had to do to protect Notre Dame and the treasures it contained.

“Quickly!” I called as my fellow priests swarmed wildly around the place. “We must close this door!” The door was then promptly shut and the blonde priest handed me the chain, doing something worthwhile for a change.

Outside, the furious screams grew louder and the doors began to tremble. We propped a desk against them, but doing such a thing no doubt was totally pointless.

Claude came out of his office and ran over to us.

In that instant of absolute, total fear, I just wanted to be with him. I wanted to take him in my arms so terribly, I reached out for him, pinning the blonde priest between us. My hand brushed across his arm, and for one blissful second, I had him.

_Stupid blonde priest._

“They’ve come for her!” the blonde priest cried. Claude shot me a look and my eyes widened.

“Send word to the Bishop of Paris,” Claude ordered. The blonde priest pushed his way between us and Claude's and my connection was severed. I leaned back against the door, too scared to be ashamed. The blonde priest hurried off, his robes flying wildly behind him. Claude rushed to the doors, putting his hands on the barricade, then turning to the receding priest and called after him, “Tell him we need the King’s Guard immediately!”

Frightened, I looked at him and wondered if the rabble would break through the door and murder us all. He turned his head to face me and his eyes narrowed. Slowly, he shook his head and looked away.

The shame set in then and I turned to check the chain on the door. My hand was centimeters from Claude’s…

Of course he wouldn't approve. What had I been _thinking_ _?_

“Esmeralda!” someone cried from outside. The door shook, and Claude and I leaned against it - like that did any good.

There were more loud screams and a great bang could was heard. The door ceased to shake and I looked at Claude; he looked at me.

“Grab hold! Grab hold!” someone outside shouted. “We can ram the door with it!”

 _Boom!_ The door shook violently and I was thrown aside. I bumped into something and realized it was Claude; he was backed into the door and I stepped away.

"Beg pardon, Excellency," I muttered awkwardly. He gave me that same disapproving look from before and stepped away. Priests swarmed all around us, pressing themselves against the doors, which continued to tremble and boom even worse than before.

I went back to the door, and it shook again. I stepped back and found myself subconsciously going over to Claude, who was staring at the door, as terrified as the rest of us.

When he saw me coming over, he reached out and grabbed my arm, pulling me closer to him.

I was confused.

Before, when _I_ had grabbed _him_ , he had seemed so disgusted with me. But now...when _he_ had grabbed _me_...

I was confused.

Then it occurred to me.

Forever. We could be together. Forever.

There was hope. Through the darkness, I saw the light.

I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if, quite possibly, he would continue his sudden, close actions. Maybe he would take that hand on my arm and slide it across my back, eventually settling it on my shoulder and pulling me into his tender grasp. Maybe he'd take his other arm and squeeze my hand, all while resting his head on my chest. Maybe he'd even pull me down to him and kiss me, finally realizing that he cared, too. He'd kiss me and we'd leave Notre Dame, Paris, all of it. We'd leave it all, _together._

Claude slid his hand down my arm and I sucked in a breath, waiting. But he didn't even notice and just continued to stare hard at the door, settling his hand on my wrist. I closed my eyes in disappointment, then opened them again.

It was the closest I’d been to him since that first night so many years ago, the night I had realized my true feelings toward him. He smelled of old books and wax candles. The way he held me was so wonderful, like my arm had been specially made for his hand.

 _Don’t let go, don’t let go.._.

“Harder!” someone cried outside, disturbing me. The door shook more and more and appeared to be on the point of crumbling to dust. I looked away from Claude’s hand and up at the door, wondering what would happen now.

Two priests ran past me, then the rest of them. They were deserting. I turned to watch them, and Claude let go of me quickly. His hand slid down, brushing along the back of my own hand. I frowned and looked back at the door. I wanted him to put his hand back, to keep it there forever, to never let go.

Screams sounded outside, and someone ordered people to come back, to heave. I wondered confusedly what was going on, and if we were all finally safe.

We weren't - the door continued to tremble and give in.

“Heave!”

More screams.

“Heave!”

Claude and I were at the door now. He was behind me, and we were the only priests defending the church.

And yet I heard footsteps running away from me. I turned and saw him running to the bell-tower staircase. I gaped as his black figure eventually disappeared up the staircase.

He had left, too! They’d all left! I was the only man to stay, to fight for Notre Dame! Oh God!

A gigantic wood beam broke through the door. Wood flew everywhere, and my stomach turned over; it had just barely smashed into me.

It seemed hopeless. Then the screams grew horrifically louder and I smelled burning wood and, sickening enough, flesh. I wanted to move, but I _had_ to stay!

Soon there was silence outside the cathedral. Realizing that we were finally safe, that we weren’t going to die, I gave a sigh of relief.

Loud clanking came from outside. I peaked out through the remnants of the door and saw soldiers walking through a sea of bodies, boulders, and fire, like something out of Dante’s hell. My jaw went slack in shock and disgust. Behind me, I heard a few priests creeping back to the door so they could act like they had never left their posts in the first place. I was too sickened to think of them as what they truly were: cowards.

“What’s going on here?” one of the officers asked nobody in particular; he seemed to be the captain of the group.

“Monsieur soldier!” I called, banging my hands against the broken door. Splinters pierced my skin and I winced. “Monsieur soldier!”

“What the devil!” The soldier peaked through the hole in the door. “Father! Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Tell me, who created that…mess out there?”

“A beggar we caught told us it was your bell-ringer, Father.”

“Quasimodo!” I hissed, sneering.

“Back away,” ordered the soldier, “and we’ll get the door open.”

I stepped as far away as I could, hearing the man shout, “Open these doors in the name of the King!” to his men. I eyed the beam that had nearly killed me, and then at the mass destruction it had caused.

Bile rose up in my throat.

“Where's the gypsy girl?” the soldier asked me as his men all stormed inside.

“She’s in the bell-tower,” I replied. “Quasimodo has her!”

I looked wildly over at the stairs; Quasimodo was at the foot of them, gazing at us.

“Kill him!” I ordered, wildly pointing at the hunchback.

Soldiers rushed over to Quasimodo, who fled up the stairs. I followed them, recalling somewhere in the back of my mind that Claude had retreated to the bell-tower earlier.

The sound of ringing bells nearly deafened us as we came onto the bell keep. I looked around and saw a man crouched in shadows. “There he is!” I cried, pointing. “Up there!”

The clanks of armor proceeded to mingle with the rings of swinging bells as the soldiers chased after Quasimodo, who was using the bells' ropes to swing away like a monkey. The soldiers climbed up a ladder. I followed them, precariously using one hand to climb, the other to keep my feet from becoming tangled in my floor-length robes.

Quasimodo got away.

I pulled myself up onto the landing and looked over to my right. There, I saw a rather small and stout soldier scrutinizing a black mass hanging on the wall. Curious, I went over to the soldier and looked at the hanging thing. I gasped.

It was Claude.

He hung on the wall, limp, his head lolled off to one side. His jaw was slack, and blood was painted on his bow-shaped lips. Blood also was pooled at his feet. He was pale, he was…he was… _Oh God!_ I had a vague feeling that my hand moved across my chest.

“Quasimodo,” I breathed in realization, my chest aching at the sight of the Archdeacon.

I dared to look away from him. I was numb all over; something sparkling on the ground caught my eye. Stepping slowly forward, I bent down and picked up the glittering thing – it was a knife, drenched with red, sticky blood. I dropped the knife and looked up.

I saw a shaft of light a few meters away. Suddenly, I was angry and desperately thirsting for revenge. With one final, gloomy look at Claude and then the knife, I crossed myself and went over to the light.

The shaft led onto a balcony. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise - how dare the sky be blue on such a miserable day - yet it was still cold out.

Looking around, I saw Claude’s murderer pulling himself up on a gutter. I pointed, crying, “There he is!” I hadn’t really been speaking to anyone, but the soldiers heard me and began to hurry over to where I was. I moved quickly around the balcony, following Quasimodo’s path as he tried to climb away from justice. Behind me, the soldiers followed my path.

He grabbed onto a gutter suspended over a great abyss and grunted; there was the sound of plaster breaking. I quickly put my hands on the balustrade and looked down.

Quasimodo hung, suspended over a fall of two hundred - if not more – feet. I saw a bloodstain on the back of his shirt. My gut reaction was to reach out my hand and help him back up; I resisted the temptation. It gave me sinister pleasure, seeing him hanging thus.

A soldier moved to pull Quasimodo up; I held my right arm out, holding him back. _No._ My gaze did not leave the hunchback.

Quasimodo would die for what he did, for killing, _murdering_ Claude.

One of his large hands slipped; Quasimodo hung by one hand. I put my right hand back on the rail, tightened my grip, and leaned down.

_Die._

“Why?” Quasimodo grunted before his fingers lost their hold.

He fell.


	9. Chapter 9

Quasimodo’s body lay there on the pavement, crumpled and broken. I looked at him, fully absorbed with his corpse. I smirked slightly, now understanding why Claude had tried to kill Phoebus.

“Father,” one of the soldier’s coughed, disturbing me. I looked away from Quasimodo and faced him.

“Get his body,” I commanded, pointing down at the fallen hunchback. “Dispose of the murderer in the Vault of Montfaucon.”

“Yes, Father.” The soldier gestured to his men and they all departed. I watched them go, then leaned back on the balustrade, my eyes now at the sky.

It was full daytime now, and sun and clouds, all cheerful and gay, greatly contrasted with reality. The sounds of Paris coming alive wafted through the air, and it all was very disturbing to me.

How could they all - the sun, the sky, the people - act as if all was completely normal? Like Claude had not been murdered?

I shuddered and turned away, going back into the bell-tower.

It was empty. I was the only living thing. Bells were suspended above me, and the wood platform creaked beneath my feet. It was all covered in dust, lifeless and empty.

I saw him.

Someone had pulled Claude down from his mount and he lay on the ground. Looking where he had been, I saw a nail protruding from the wall, encrusted with blood. Claude’s blood. The blood continued onto the wall, where it dripped down to the floor and then was smeared in an arc from the puddle to where he lay.

The pain, which had not yet fully come, had not yet fully struck, came then with full force. I opened my mouth, then closed it, trying to find the right words…any words…

There were none. I bent down next to him.

“Oh, Claude,” I choked out, my eyes heavy with tears. “I… I… I’m so sorry. I should have been there, I should have been the one to fall prey to her spell, I should have…should have…”

There were so many things I should have done - far too many to count. The sheer multitude of them all overwhelmed me, and I crumpled up and cried, my face buried into my palms.

“Oh God!” I sobbed, pulling myself from the sea. “You’re gone. Not here. Dead.” I put my face into my hands again. “No,” I murmured, “you can’t be. You just can’t. You’re Claude. Life. Love. No.

“Who will I rise for each day? To see their smile, to hear their ‘Good morning, Brother Philippe…’ Why do I even stay here at Notre Dame? You, Claude, you were the sole reason. I stayed, stayed and was the best priest you’d ever seen. You told me that.” I grabbed one of his limp hands. It was nearly cold, but some heat still clung to his skin.

“Wake up, Excellency,” I begged, shaking his hand and softly slapping his fingers. “You have to get up. The sermon…your duties…”

He didn’t move. Not even a blink.

I looked at him for a few minutes, then sighed.

“You’re not coming back,” I realized, letting go of his hand. The truth hurt. “You’re gone. Quasimodo killed you.” Then I realized. “No - Quasimodo didn’t kill you - the gypsy, the witch! She did this, she led you to your demise. It’s all the gypsy’s fault.

“You were so good, so pure…” I ran my fingers along his cheek. “The perfect Archdeacon. Then the girl, the witch! I killed him! I stood there and let him die! Oh, Claude…”

I drifted off, removing my hand from his face. Ι tightened the hand into a fist and dragged it down to my lap. Tears fell limply from my face, splashing onto Claude’s lifeless chest.

“Forgive me, Excellency - I forgot how much you dislike people touching you.” I bowed my head. “I won’t touch you.

“But, but…” The tears obstructed my vision and my lower lip quivered. “You aren’t here, you can’t dislike things anymore, you’re gone!” I brushed back my hair with both hands, grabbing at my scalp in confusion. My mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

Emptiness. Nothing but emptiness. It overcame me, and I plunged into it, being succumbed by the tears, the agony.

Dead.

Sobbing and not really caring about anything anymore, I grabbed his hand and cupped his face. “Claude, no matter what, I’ll always love you.”

My life had been so sure, so certain, but now… I didn’t know what would happen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't purposely write this last chapter setting out to get something like "Danse, mon Esmeralda"; it just happened.


End file.
